Autobiography of a Yogi: (With Pictures)

By Paramhansa Yogananda

Autobiography of a Yogi is an eloquently written story of an extraordinary life and an inspiring meditation on the art of yoga. Written decades ago, this poignant autobiography still has ample vigor and relevance in today's world.

NOTE: This is an electronic reproduction of an original work. All Images are taken from the original and might be unclear for some readers. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Start Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781627931663

Paramhansa Yogananda

Paramhansa Yogananda (1893–1952) was a yogi and guru, best known for introducing millions of Westerners to meditation and yoga through his book, Autobiography of a Yogi. Yogananda was born in Gorakhpur, India, to a religious family. He was taught the way of the yogi and spiritual discipline, and upon graduating from Calcutta University in 1915, became a monk in India’s monastic Swami Order. In 1920, after receiving a spiritual vision, Yogananda traveled to the United States to teach Kriya Yoga to Westerners. He founded the Self-Realization Fellowship and continued to teach in America and India.

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CHAPTER: 2

My Mother’s Death And The Mystic Amulet

My mother’s greatest desire was the marriage of my elder brother. Ah, when I behold the face of Ananta’s wife, I shall find heaven on this earth! I frequently heard Mother express in these words her strong Indian sentiment for family continuity.

I was about eleven years old at the time of Ananta’s betrothal. Mother was in Calcutta, joyously supervising the wedding preparations. Father and I alone remained at our home in Bareilly in northern India, whence Father had been transferred after two years at Lahore.

I had previously witnessed the splendor of nuptial rites for my two elder sisters, Roma and Uma; but for Ananta, as the eldest son, plans were truly elaborate. Mother was welcoming numerous relatives, daily arriving in Calcutta from distant homes. She lodged them comfortably in a large, newly acquired house at 50 Amherst Street. Everything was in readiness-the banquet delicacies, the gay throne on which Brother was to be carried to the home of the bride-to-be, the rows of colorful lights, the mammoth cardboard elephants and camels, the English, Scottish and Indian orchestras, the professional entertainers, the priests for the ancient rituals.

Father and I, in gala spirits, were planning to join the family in time for the ceremony. Shortly before the great day, however, I had an ominous vision.

It was in Bareilly on a midnight. As I slept beside Father on the piazza of our bungalow, I was awakened by a peculiar flutter of the mosquito netting over the bed. The flimsy curtains parted and I saw the beloved form of my mother.

Awaken your father! Her voice was only a whisper. Take the first available train, at four o’clock this morning. Rush to Calcutta if you would see me! The wraithlike figure vanished.

Father, Father! Mother is dying! The terror in my tone aroused him instantly. I sobbed out the fatal tidings.

Never mind that hallucination of yours. Father gave his characteristic negation to a new situation. Your mother is in excellent health. If we get any bad news, we shall leave tomorrow.

You shall never forgive yourself for not starting now! Anguish caused me to add bitterly, Nor shall I ever forgive you!

The melancholy morning came with explicit words: Mother dangerously ill; marriage postponed; come at once.

Father and I left distractedly. One of my uncles met us en route at a transfer point. A train thundered toward us, looming with telescopic increase. From my inner tumult, an abrupt determination arose to hurl myself on the railroad tracks. Already bereft, I felt, of my mother, I could not endure a world suddenly barren to the bone. I loved Mother as my dearest friend on earth. Her solacing black eyes had been my surest refuge in the trifling tragedies of childhood.

Does she yet live? I stopped for one last question to my uncle.

Of course she is alive! He was not slow to interpret the desperation in my face. But I scarcely believed him.

When we reached our Calcutta home, it was only to confront the stunning mystery of death. I collapsed into an almost lifeless state. Years passed before any reconciliation entered my heart. Storming the very gates of heaven, my cries at last summoned the Divine Mother. Her words brought final healing to my suppurating wounds:

It is I who have watched over thee, life after life, in the tenderness of many mothers! See in My gaze the two black eyes, the lost beautiful eyes, thou seekest!

Father and I returned to Bareilly soon after the crematory rites for the well-beloved. Early every morning I made a pathetic memorial- pilgrimage to a large sheoli tree which shaded the smooth, green-gold lawn before our bungalow. In poetical moments, I thought that the white sheoli flowers were strewing themselves with a willing devotion over the grassy altar. Mingling tears with the dew, I often observed a strange other-worldly light emerging from the dawn. Intense pangs of longing for God assailed me. I felt powerfully drawn to the Himalayas.

One of my cousins, fresh from a period of travel in the holy hills, visited us in Bareilly. I listened eagerly to his tales about the high mountain abode of yogis and swamis.

Let us run away to the Himalayas. My suggestion one day to Dwarka Prasad, the young son of our landlord in Bareilly, fell on unsympathetic ears. He revealed my plan to my elder brother, who had just arrived to see Father. Instead of laughing lightly over this impractical scheme of a small boy, Ananta made it a definite point to ridicule me.

Where is your orange robe? You can’t be a swami without that!

But I was inexplicably thrilled by his words. They brought a clear picture of myself roaming about India as a monk. Perhaps they awakened memories of a past life; in any case, I began to see with what natural ease I would wear the garb of that anciently-founded monastic order.

Chatting one morning with Dwarka, I felt a love for God descending with avalanchic force. My companion was only partly attentive to the ensuing eloquence, but I was wholeheartedly listening to myself.

I fled that afternoon toward Naini Tal in the Himalayan foothills. Ananta gave determined chase; I was forced to return sadly to Bareilly. The only pilgrimage permitted me was the customary one at dawn to the sheoli tree. My heart wept for the lost Mothers, human and divine.

The rent left in the family fabric by Mother’s death was irreparable. Father never remarried during his nearly forty remaining years. Assuming the difficult role of Father-Mother to his little flock, he grew noticeably more tender, more approachable. With calmness and insight, he solved the various family problems. After office hours he retired like a hermit to the cell of his room, practicing Kriya Yoga in a sweet serenity. Long after Mother’s death, I attempted to engage an English nurse to attend to details that would make my parent’s life more comfortable. But Father shook his head.

Service to me ended with your mother. His eyes were remote with a lifelong devotion. I will not accept ministrations from any other woman.

Fourteen months after Mother’s passing, I learned that she had left me a momentous message. Ananta was present at her deathbed and had recorded her words. Although she had asked that the disclosure be made to me in one year, my brother delayed. He was soon to leave Bareilly for Calcutta, to marry the girl Mother had chosen for him. One evening he summoned me to his side.

Mukunda, I have been reluctant to give you strange tidings. Ananta’s tone held a note of resignation. My fear was to inflame your desire to leave home. But in any case you are bristling with divine ardor. When I captured you recently on your way to the Himalayas, I came to a definite resolve. I must not further postpone the fulfillment of my solemn promise. My brother handed me a small box, and delivered Mother’s message.

Let these words be my final blessing, my beloved son Mukunda! Mother had said. "The hour is here when I must relate a number of phenomenal events following your birth. I first knew your destined path when you were but a babe in my arms. I carried you then to the home of my guru in Benares. Almost hidden behind a throng of disciples, I could barely see Lahiri Mahasaya as he sat in deep meditation.

"While I patted you, I was praying that the great guru take notice and bestow a blessing. As my silent devotional demand grew in intensity, he opened his eyes and beckoned me to approach. The others made a way for me; I bowed at the sacred feet. My master seated you on his lap, placing his hand on your forehead by way of spiritually baptizing you.

"’Little mother, thy son will be a yogi. As a spiritual engine, he will carry many souls to God’s kingdom.’

"My heart leaped with joy to find my secret prayer granted by the omniscient guru. Shortly before your birth, he had told me you would follow his path.

"Later, my son, your vision of the Great Light was known to me and your sister Roma, as from the next room we observed you motionless on the bed. Your little face was illuminated; your voice rang with iron resolve as you spoke of going to the Himalayas in quest of the Divine.

"In these ways, dear son, I came to know that your road lies far from worldly ambitions. The most singular event in my life brought further confirmation-an event which now impels my deathbed message.

"It was an interview with a sage in the Punjab. While our family was living in Lahore, one morning the servant came precipitantly into my room.

’Mistress, a strange sadhu is here. He insists that he see the mother of Mukunda."’

"These simple words struck a profound chord within me; I went at once to greet the visitor. Bowing at his feet, I sensed that before me was a true man of God.

"’Mother,’ he said, ‘the great masters wish you to know that your stay on earth will not be long. Your next illness shall prove to be your last.’ There was a silence, during which I felt no alarm but only a vibration of great peace. Finally he addressed me again:

"’You are to be the custodian of a certain silver amulet. I will not give it to you today; to demonstrate the truth in my words, the talisman shall materialize in your hands tomorrow as you meditate. On your deathbed, you must instruct your eldest son Ananta to keep the amulet for one year and then to hand it over to your second son. Mukunda will understand the meaning of the talisman from the great ones. He should receive it about the time he is ready to renounce all worldly hopes and start his vital search for God. When he has retained the amulet for some years, and when it has served its purpose, it shall vanish. Even if kept in the most secret spot, it shall return whence it came.’

I proffered alms to the saint, and bowed before him in great reverence. Not taking the offering, he departed with a blessing. The next evening, as I sat with folded hands in meditation, a silver amulet materialized between my palms, even as the sadhu had promised. It made itself known by a cold, smooth touch. I have jealously guarded it for more than two years, and now leave it in Ananta’s keeping. Do not grieve for me, as I shall have been ushered by my great guru into the arms of the Infinite. Farewell, my child; the Cosmic Mother will protect you.

A blaze of illumination came over me with possession of the amulet; many dormant memories awakened. The talisman, round and anciently quaint, was covered with Sanskrit characters. I understood that it came from teachers of past lives, who were invisibly guiding my steps. A further significance there was, indeed; but one does not reveal fully the heart of an amulet.

How the talisman finally vanished amidst deeply unhappy circumstances of my life; and how its loss was a herald of my gain of a guru, cannot be told in this chapter.

But the small boy, thwarted in his attempts to reach the Himalayas, daily traveled far on the wings of his amulet.

CHAPTER: 3

The Saint With Two Bodies

Father, if I promise to return home without coercion, may I take a sight-seeing trip to Benares?

My keen love of travel was seldom hindered by Father. He permitted me, even as a mere boy, to visit many cities and pilgrimage spots. Usually one or more of my friends accompanied me; we would travel comfortably on first-class passes provided by Father. His position as a railroad official was fully satisfactory to the nomads in the family.

Father promised to give my request due consideration. The next day he summoned me and held out a round-trip pass from Bareilly to Benares, a number of rupee notes, and two letters.

I have a business matter to propose to a Benares friend, Kedar Nath Babu. Unfortunately I have lost his address. But I believe you will be able to get this letter to him through our common friend, Swami Pranabananda. The swami, my brother disciple, has attained an exalted spiritual stature. You will benefit by his company; this second note will serve as your introduction.

Father’s eyes twinkled as he added, Mind, no more flights from home!

I set forth with the zest of my twelve years (though time has never dimmed my delight in new scenes and strange faces). Reaching Benares, I proceeded immediately to the swami’s residence. The front door was open; I made my way to a long, hall-like room on the second floor. A rather stout man, wearing only a loincloth, was seated in lotus posture on a slightly raised platform. His head and unwrinkled face were clean-shaven; a beatific smile played about his lips. To dispel my thought that I had intruded, he greeted me as an old friend.

Baba anand (bliss to my dear one). His welcome was given heartily in a childlike voice. I knelt and touched his feet.

Are you Swami Pranabananda?

He nodded. Are you Bhagabati’s son? His words were out before I had had time to get Father’s letter from my pocket. In astonishment, I handed him the note of introduction, which now seemed superfluous.

Of course I will locate Kedar Nath Babu for you. The saint again surprised me by his clairvoyance. He glanced at the letter, and made a few affectionate references to my parent.

You know, I am enjoying two pensions. One is by the recommendation of your father, for whom I once worked in the railroad office. The other is by the recommendation of my Heavenly Father, for whom I have conscientiously finished my earthly duties in life.

I found this remark very obscure. What kind of pension, sir, do you receive from the Heavenly Father? Does He drop money in your lap?

He laughed. I mean a pension of fathomless peace-a reward for many years of deep meditation. I never crave money now. My few material needs are amply provided for. Later you will understand the significance of a second pension.

Abruptly terminating our conversation, the saint became gravely motionless. A sphinxlike air enveloped him. At first his eyes sparkled, as if observing something of interest, then grew dull. I felt abashed at his pauciloquy; he had not yet told me how I could meet Father’s friend. A trifle restlessly, I looked about me in the bare room, empty except for us two. My idle gaze took in his wooden sandals, lying under the platform seat.

Little sir, don’t get worried. The man you wish to see will be with you in half an hour. The yogi was reading my mind-a feat not too difficult at the moment!

Again he fell into inscrutable silence. My watch informed me that thirty minutes had elapsed.

The swami aroused himself. I think Kedar Nath Babu is nearing the door.

I heard somebody coming up the stairs. An amazed incomprehension arose suddenly; my thoughts raced in confusion: How is it possible that Father’s friend has been summoned to this place without the help of a messenger? The swami has spoken to no one but myself since my arrival!

Abruptly I quitted the room and descended the steps. Halfway down I met a thin, fair-skinned man of medium height. He appeared to be in a hurry.

Are you Kedar Nath Babu? Excitement colored my voice.

Yes. Are you not Bhagabati’s son who has been waiting here to meet me? He smiled in friendly fashion.

Sir, how do you happen to come here? I felt baffled resentment over his inexplicable presence.

"Everything is mysterious today! Less than an hour ago I had just finished my bath in the Ganges when Swami Pranabananda approached me. I have no idea how he knew I was there at that time.

"’Bhagabati’s son is waiting for you in my apartment,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me?’ I gladly agreed. As we proceeded hand in hand, the swami in his wooden sandals was strangely able to outpace me, though I wore these stout walking shoes.

"’How long will it take you to reach my place?’ Pranabanandaji suddenly halted to ask me this question.

"’About half an hour.’

"’I have something else to do at present.’ He gave me an enigmatical glance. ‘I must leave you behind. You can join me in my house, where Bhagabati’s son and I will be awaiting you.’

Before I could remonstrate, he dashed swiftly past me and disappeared in the crowd. I walked here as fast as possible.

This explanation only increased my bewilderment. I inquired how long he had known the swami.

We met a few times last year, but not recently. I was very glad to see him again today at the bathing ghat .

I cannot believe my ears! Am I losing my mind? Did you meet him in a vision, or did you actually see him, touch his hand, and hear the sound of his feet?

I don’t know what you’re driving at! He flushed angrily. I am not lying to you. Can’t you understand that only through the swami could I have known you were waiting at this place for me?

Why, that man, Swami Pranabananda, has not left my sight a moment since I first came about an hour ago. I blurted out the whole story.

His eyes opened widely. Are we living in this material age, or are we dreaming? I never expected to witness such a miracle in my life! I thought this swami was just an ordinary man, and now I find he can materialize an extra body and work through it! Together we entered the saint’s room.

Look, those are the very sandals he was wearing at the ghat , Kedar Nath Babu whispered. He was clad only in a loincloth, just as I see him now.

As the visitor bowed before him, the saint turned to me with a quizzical smile.

Why are you stupefied at all this? The subtle unity of the phenomenal world is not hidden from true yogis. I instantly see and converse with my disciples in distant Calcutta. They can similarly transcend at will every obstacle of gross matter.

Swami Pranabananda

The Saint With Two Bodies

An Exalted Disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya

It was probably in an effort to stir spiritual ardor in my young breast that the swami had condescended to tell me of his powers of astral radio and television. But instead of enthusiasm, I experienced only an awe-stricken fear. Inasmuch as I was destined to undertake my divine search through one particular guru-Sri Yukteswar, whom I had not yet met-I felt no inclination to accept Pranabananda as my teacher. I glanced at him doubtfully, wondering if it were he or his counterpart before me.

The master sought to banish my disquietude by bestowing a soul- awakening gaze, and by some inspiring words about his guru.

Lahiri Mahasaya was the greatest yogi I ever knew. He was Divinity Itself in the form of flesh.

If a disciple, I reflected, could materialize an extra fleshly form at will, what miracles indeed could be barred to his master?

"I will tell you how priceless is a guru’s help. I used to meditate with another disciple for eight hours every night. We had to work at the railroad office during the day. Finding difficulty in carrying on my clerical duties, I desired to devote my whole time to God. For eight years I persevered, meditating half the night. I had wonderful results; tremendous spiritual perceptions illumined my mind. But a little veil always remained between me and the Infinite. Even with super-human earnestness, I found the final irrevocable union to be denied me. One evening I paid a visit to Lahiri Mahasaya and pleaded for his divine intercession. My importunities continued during the entire night.

"’Angelic Guru, my spiritual anguish is such that I can no longer bear my life without meeting the Great Beloved face to face!’

"’What can I do? You must meditate more profoundly.’

"’I am appealing to Thee, O God my Master! I see Thee materialized before me in a physical body; bless me that I may perceive Thee in Thine infinite form!’

"Lahiri Mahasaya extended his hand in a benign gesture. ‘You may go now and meditate. I have interceded for you with Brahma.’

Immeasurably uplifted, I returned to my home. In meditation that night, the burning Goal of my life was achieved. Now I ceaselessly enjoy the spiritual pension. Never from that day has the Blissful Creator remained hidden from my eyes behind any screen of delusion.

Pranabananda’s face was suffused with divine light. The peace of another world entered my heart; all fear had fled. The saint made a further confidence.

"Some months later I returned to Lahiri Mahasaya and tried to thank him for his bestowal of the infinite gift. Then I mentioned another matter.

"’Divine Guru, I can no longer work in the office. Please release me. Brahma keeps me continuously intoxicated.’

"’Apply for a pension from your company.’

"’What reason shall I give, so early in my service?’

"’Say what you feel.’

"The next day I made my application. The doctor inquired the grounds for my premature request.

"’At work, I find an overpowering sensation rising in my spine. It permeates my whole body, unfitting me for the performance of my duties.’

Without further questioning the physician recommended me highly for a pension, which I soon received. I know the divine will of Lahiri Mahasaya worked through the doctor and the railroad officials, including your father. Automatically they obeyed the great guru’s spiritual direction, and freed me for a life of unbroken communion with the Beloved.

After this extraordinary revelation, Swami Pranabananda retired into one of his long silences. As I was taking leave, touching his feet reverently, he gave me his blessing:

Your life belongs to the path of renunciation and yoga. I shall see you again, with your father, later on. The years brought fulfillment to both these predictions.

Kedar Nath Babu walked by my side in the gathering darkness. I delivered Father’s letter, which my companion read under a street lamp.

Your father suggests that I take a position in the Calcutta office of his railroad company. How pleasant to look forward to at least one of the pensions that Swami Pranabananda enjoys! But it is impossible; I cannot leave Benares. Alas, two bodies are not yet for me!

CHAPTER: 4

My Interrupted Flight Toward The Himalayas

Leave your classroom on some trifling pretext, and engage a hackney carriage. Stop in the lane where no one in my house can see you.

These were my final instructions to Amar Mitter, a high school friend who planned to accompany me to the Himalayas. We had chosen the following day for our flight. Precautions were necessary, as Ananta exercised a vigilant eye. He was determined to foil the plans of escape which he suspected were uppermost in my mind. The amulet, like a spiritual yeast, was silently at work within me. Amidst the Himalayan snows, I hoped to find the master whose face often appeared to me in visions.

The family was living now in Calcutta, where Father had been permanently transferred. Following the patriarchal Indian custom, Ananta had brought his bride to live in our home, now at 4 Gurpar Road. There in a small attic room I engaged in daily meditations and prepared my mind for the divine search.

The memorable morning arrived with inauspicious rain. Hearing the wheels of Amar’s carriage in the road, I hastily tied together a blanket, a pair of sandals, Lahiri Mahasaya’s picture, a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, a string of prayer beads, and two loincloths. This bundle I threw from my third-story window. I ran down the steps and passed my uncle, buying fish at the door.

What is the excitement? His gaze roved suspiciously over my person.

I gave him a noncommittal smile and walked to the lane. Retrieving my bundle, I joined Amar with conspiratorial caution. We drove to Chadni Chowk, a merchandise center. For months we had been saving our tiffin money to buy English clothes. Knowing that my clever brother could easily play the part of a detective, we thought to outwit him by European garb.

On the way to the station, we stopped for my cousin, Jotin Ghosh, whom I called Jatinda. He was a new convert, longing for a guru in the Himalayas. He donned the new suit we had in readiness. Well- camouflaged, we hoped! A deep elation possessed our hearts.

All we need now are canvas shoes. I led my companions to a shop displaying rubber-soled footwear. Articles of leather, gotten only through the slaughter of animals, must be absent on this holy trip. I halted on the street to remove the leather cover from my Bhagavad Gita, and the leather straps from my English-made sola topee (helmet).

At the station we bought tickets to Burdwan, where we planned to transfer for Hardwar in the Himalayan foothills. As soon as the train, like ourselves, was in flight, I gave utterance to a few of my glorious anticipations.

Just imagine! I ejaculated. We shall be initiated by the masters and experience the trance of cosmic consciousness. Our flesh will be charged with such magnetism that wild animals of the Himalayas will come tamely near us. Tigers will be no more than meek house cats awaiting our caresses!

This remark-picturing a prospect I considered entrancing, both metaphorically and literally-brought an enthusiastic smile from Amar. But Jatinda averted his gaze, directing it through the window at the scampering landscape.

Let the money be divided in three portions. Jatinda broke a long silence with this suggestion. Each of us should buy his own ticket at Burdwan. Thus no one at the station will surmise that we are running away together.

I unsuspectingly agreed. At dusk our train stopped at Burdwan. Jatinda entered the ticket office; Amar and I sat on the platform. We waited fifteen minutes, then made unavailing inquiries. Searching in all directions, we shouted Jatinda’s name with the urgency of fright. But he had faded into the dark unknown surrounding the little station.

I was completely unnerved, shocked to a peculiar numbness. That God would countenance this depressing episode! The romantic occasion of my first carefully-planned flight after Him was cruelly marred.

Amar, we must return home. I was weeping like a child. Jatinda’s callous departure is an ill omen. This trip is doomed to failure.

Is this your love for the Lord? Can’t you stand the little test of a treacherous companion?

Through Amar’s suggestion of a divine test, my heart steadied itself. We refreshed ourselves with famous Burdwan sweetmeats, sitabhog (food for the goddess) and motichur (nuggets of sweet pearl). In a few hours, we entrained for Hardwar, via Bareilly. Changing trains at Moghul Serai, we discussed a vital matter as we waited on the platform.

Amar, we may soon be closely questioned by railroad officials. I am not underrating my brother’s ingenuity! No matter what the outcome, I will not speak untruth.

All I ask of you, Mukunda, is to keep still. Don’t laugh or grin while I am talking.

At this moment, a European station agent accosted me. He waved a telegram whose import I immediately grasped.

Are you running away from home in anger?

No! I was glad his choice of words permitted me to make emphatic reply. Not anger but divinest melancholy was responsible, I knew, for my unconventional behavior.

The official then turned to Amar. The duel of wits that followed hardly permitted me to maintain the counseled stoic gravity.

Where is the third boy? The man injected a full ring of authority into his voice. Come on; speak the truth!

Sir, I notice you are wearing eyeglasses. Can’t you see that we are only two? Amar smiled impudently. I am not a magician; I can’t conjure up a third companion.

The official, noticeably disconcerted by this impertinence, sought a new field of attack.

What is your name?

I am called Thomas. I am the son of an English mother and a converted Christian Indian father.

What is your friend’s name?

I call him Thompson.

By this time my inward mirth had reached a zenith; I unceremoniously made for the train, whistling for departure. Amar followed with the official, who was credulous and obliging enough to put us into a European compartment. It evidently pained him to think of two half- English boys traveling in the section allotted to natives. After his polite exit, I lay back on the seat and laughed uncontrollably. My friend wore an expression of blithe satisfaction at having outwitted a veteran European official.

On the platform I had contrived to read the telegram. From my brother, it went thus: Three Bengali boys in English clothes running away from home toward Hardwar via Moghul Serai. Please detain them until my arrival. Ample reward for your services.

Amar, I told you not to leave marked timetables in your home. My glance was reproachful. Brother must have found one there.

My friend sheepishly acknowledged the thrust. We halted briefly in Bareilly, where Dwarka Prasad awaited us with a telegram from Ananta. My old friend tried valiantly to detain us; I convinced him that our flight had not been undertaken lightly. As on a previous occasion, Dwarka refused my invitation to set forth to the Himalayas.

While our train stood in a station that night, and I was half asleep, Amar was awakened by another questioning official. He, too, fell a victim to the hybrid charms of Thomas and Thompson. The train bore us triumphantly into a dawn arrival at Hardwar. The majestic mountains loomed invitingly in the distance. We dashed through the station and entered the freedom of city crowds. Our first act was to change into native costume, as Ananta had somehow penetrated our European disguise. A premonition of capture weighed on my mind.

Deeming it advisable to leave Hardwar at once, we bought tickets to proceed north to Rishikesh, a soil long hallowed by feet of many masters. I had already boarded the train, while Amar lagged on the platform. He was brought to an abrupt halt by a shout from a policeman. Our unwelcome guardian escorted us to a station bungalow and took charge of our money. He explained courteously that it was his duty to hold us until my elder brother arrived.

Learning that the truants’ destination had been the Himalayas, the officer related a strange story.

"I see you are crazy about saints! You will never meet a greater man of God than the one I saw only yesterday. My brother officer and I first encountered him five days ago. We were patrolling by the Ganges, on a sharp lookout for a certain murderer. Our instructions were to capture him, alive or dead. He was known to be masquerading as a sadhu in order to rob pilgrims. A short way before us, we spied a figure which resembled the description of the criminal. He ignored our command to stop; we ran to overpower him. Approaching his back, I wielded my ax with tremendous force; the man’s right arm was severed almost completely from his body.

"Without outcry or any glance at the ghastly wound, the stranger astonishingly continued his swift pace. As we jumped in front of him, he spoke quietly.

"’I am not the murderer you are seeking.’

"I was deeply mortified to see I had injured the person of a divine- looking sage. Prostrating myself at his feet, I implored his pardon, and offered my turban-cloth to staunch the heavy spurts of blood.

"’Son, that was just an understandable mistake on your part.’ The saint regarded me kindly. ‘Run along, and don’t reproach yourself. The Beloved Mother is taking care of me.’ He pushed his dangling arm into its stump and lo! it adhered; the blood inexplicably ceased to flow.

"’Come to me under yonder tree in three days and you will find me fully healed. Thus you will feel no remorse.’

"Yesterday my brother officer and I went eagerly to the designated spot. The sadhu was there and allowed us to examine his arm. It bore no scar or trace of hurt!

’I am going via Rishikesh to the Himalayan solitudes.’ He blessed us as he departed quickly. I feel that my life has been uplifted through his sanctity.

The officer concluded with a pious ejaculation; his experience had obviously moved him beyond his usual depths. With an impressive gesture, he handed me a printed clipping about the miracle. In the usual garbled manner of the sensational type of newspaper (not missing, alas! even in India), the reporter’s version was slightly exaggerated: it indicated that the sadhu had been almost decapitated!

Amar and I lamented that we had missed the great yogi who could forgive his persecutor in such a Christlike way. India, materially poor for the last two centuries, yet has an inexhaustible fund of divine wealth; spiritual skyscrapers may occasionally be encountered by the wayside, even by worldly men like this policeman.

We thanked the officer for relieving our tedium with his marvelous story. He was probably intimating that he was more fortunate than we: he had met an illumined saint without effort; our earnest search had ended, not at the feet of a master, but in a coarse police station!

So near the Himalayas and yet, in our captivity, so far, I told Amar I felt doubly impelled to seek freedom.

Let us slip away when opportunity offers. We can go on foot to holy Rishikesh. I smiled encouragingly.

But my companion had turned pessimist as soon as the stalwart prop of our money had been taken from us.

If we started a trek over such dangerous jungle land, we should finish, not in the city of saints, but in the stomachs of tigers!

Ananta and Amar’s brother arrived after three days. Amar greeted his relative with affectionate relief. I was unreconciled; Ananta got no more from me than a severe upbraiding.

I understand how you feel. My brother spoke soothingly. All I ask of you is to accompany me to Benares to meet a certain saint, and go on to Calcutta to visit your grieving father for a few days. Then you can resume your search here for a master.

Amar entered the conversation at this point to disclaim any intention of returning to Hardwar with me. He was enjoying the familial warmth. But I knew I would never abandon the quest for my guru.

Our party entrained for Benares. There I had a singular and instant response to my prayers.

A clever scheme had been prearranged by Ananta. Before seeing me at Hardwar, he had stopped in Benares to ask a certain scriptural authority to interview me later. Both the pundit and his son had promised to undertake my dissuasion from the path of a sannyasi .

Ananta took me to their home. The son, a young man of ebullient manner, greeted me in the courtyard. He engaged me in a lengthy philosophic discourse. Professing to have a clairvoyant knowledge of my future, he discountenanced my idea of being a monk.

You will meet continual misfortune, and be unable to find God, if you insist on deserting your ordinary responsibilities! You cannot work out your past karma without worldly experiences.

Krishna’s immortal words rose to my lips in reply: ’Even he with the worst of karma who ceaselessly meditates on Me quickly loses the effects of his past bad actions. Becoming a high-souled being, he soon attains perennial peace. Arjuna, know this for certain: the devotee who puts his trust in Me never perishes!’

But the forceful prognostications of the young man had slightly shaken my confidence. With all the fervor of my heart I prayed silently to God:

Please solve my bewilderment and answer me, right here and now, if Thou dost desire me to lead the life of a renunciate or a worldly man!

I noticed a sadhu of noble countenance standing just outside the compound of the pundit’s house. Evidently he had overheard the spirited conversation between the self-styled clairvoyant and myself, for the stranger called me to his side. I felt a tremendous power flowing from his calm eyes.

Son, don’t listen to that ignoramus. In response to your prayer, the Lord tells me to assure you that your sole path in this life is that of the renunciate.

With astonishment as well as gratitude, I smiled happily at this decisive message.

Come away from that man! The ignoramus was calling me from the courtyard. My saintly guide raised his hand in blessing and slowly departed.

That sadhu is just as crazy as you are. It was the hoary-headed pundit who made this charming observation. He and his son were gazing at me lugubriously. I heard that he too has left his home in a vague search for God.

I stand behind my

elder brother, Ananta

I turned away. To Ananta I remarked that I would not engage in further discussion with our hosts. My brother agreed to an immediate departure; we soon entrained for Calcutta.

Mr. Detective, how did you discover I had fled with two companions? I vented my lively curiosity to Ananta during our homeward journey. He smiled mischievously.

"At your school, I found that Amar had left his classroom and had not returned. I went to his home the next morning and unearthed a marked timetable. Amar’s father was just leaving by carriage and was talking to the coachman.

"’My son will not ride with me to his school this morning. He has disappeared!’ the father moaned.

"’I heard from a brother coachman that your son and two others, dressed in European suits, boarded the train at Howrah Station,’ the man stated. ‘They made a present of their leather shoes to the cab driver.’

Thus I had three clues-the timetable, the trio of boys, and the English clothing.

I was listening to Ananta’s disclosures with mingled mirth and vexation. Our generosity to the coachman had been slightly misplaced!

"Of course I rushed to send telegrams to station officials in all the cities which Amar had underlined in the timetable. He had checked Bareilly, so I wired your friend Dwarka there. After inquiries in our Calcutta neighborhood, I learned that cousin Jatinda had been absent one night but had arrived home the following moning in European garb. I sought him out and invited him to dinner. He accepted, quite disarmed by my friendly manner. On the way I led him unsuspectingly to a police station. He was surrounded by several officers whom I had previously selected for their ferocious appearance. Under their formidable gaze, Jatinda agreed to account for his mysterious conduct.

Last Solstice Festival celebrated by Sri Yukteswar, December, 1935. My Guru is seated in the center; I am at his right, in the large courtyard of his hermitage in Serampore.

’I started for the Himalayas in a buoyant spiritual mood,’ he explained. ‘Inspiration filled me at the prospect of meeting the masters. But as soon as Mukunda said, During our ecstasies in the Himalayan caves, tigers will be spellbound and sit around us like tame pussies, my spirits froze; beads of perspiration formed on my brow. What then? I thought. If the vicious nature of the tigers be not changed through the power of our spiritual trance, shall they treat us with the kindness of house cats? In my mind’s eye, I already saw myself the compulsory inmate of some tiger’s stomach-entering there not at once with the whole body, but by installments of its several parts!’

My anger at Jatinda’s vanishment was evaporated in laughter. The hilarious sequel on the train was worth all the anguish he had caused me. I must confess to a slight feeling of satisfaction: Jatinda too had not escaped an encounter with the police!

Ananta, you are a born sleuthhound! My glance of amusement was not without some exasperation. And I shall tell Jatinda I am glad he was prompted by no mood of treachery, as it appeared, but only by the prudent instinct of self-preservation!

At home in Calcutta, Father touchingly requested me to curb my roving feet until, at least, the completion of my high school studies. In my absence, he had lovingly hatched a plot by arranging for a saintly pundit, Swami Kebalananda, to come regularly to the house.

The sage will be your Sanskrit tutor, my parent announced confidently.

Father hoped to satisfy my religious yearnings by instructions from a learned philosopher. But the tables were subtly turned: my new teacher, far from offering intellectual aridities, fanned the embers of my God-aspiration. Unknown to Father, Swami Kebalananda was an exalted disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya. The peerless guru had possessed thousands of disciples, silently drawn to him by the irresistibility of his divine magnetism. I learned later that Lahiri Mahasaya had often characterized Kebalananda as rishi or illumined sage.

Luxuriant curls framed my tutor’s handsome face. His dark eyes were guileless, with the transparency of a child’s. All the movements of his slight body were marked by a restful deliberation. Ever gentle and loving, he was firmly established in the infinite consciousness. Many of our happy hours together were spent in deep Kriya meditation.

Kebalananda was a noted authority on the ancient shastras or sacred books: his erudition had earned him the title of Shastri Mahasaya, by which he was usually addressed. But my

[awdhesh-16 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I liked the book because it is well written and quite absorbing. It, however, shows many miracles and supernatural events which I find it difficult to believe. Yet This is a unique book because it displays a truth which is beyond commonsense. You never know if that dimension may really exist.

[ionas_7 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

First, I´ll admit that I didn´t manage to read this 2-volume book to the end. And life is too short to complete long books that one finds boring.

While I have full respect for Yogananda, I just didn´t find this book interesting, though it was extremely well-written (at least in Danish translation). The author tells us at length of his encounters with various yogis in his youth, who were highly developed, and could bi-locate (be in two places at once), etc etc, and of various other experiences. He also pontificates about India´s scientific prowess.

At the back of each volume there are interesting photos of the author and his family, and various gurus of his acquaintance, including his own guru, Sri Yukteswar, etc,

If you are extremely interested in yogis, India, or want to know all details of Yogananda´s life, you may find this book fascinating. Otherwise, you may find it as boring as I did. I cannot really recommend it, though I cannot exclude the possibility that parts of the book I didn´t get round to contain fascinating bits of information.

[tobias.bruell · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

The text is mainly a collection of miracles the the author claims have happened in his, his guru's, or his guru's guru's life. "Miracle" here means something of the type: divine healing, teleportation, a person not appearing on a photo taken, materialisation of food and other things, telepathy, predicting the future, non-eating for extended periods of time, transfer of diseases, or resurrection. The text also contains more mundane episodes from the authors life and even a few glimpses of his teaching. However, the real meat of his teaching (called "Kriya Yoga") is only made available to those who are willing to enter the institution founded by the author; this is often not a good sign.

Regardless of whether one believes all the stories of miracles or not, the whole text is very sensationalistic. Also, I found the exaggerated reverence of the author for his guru often very annoying. At other times it just seems odd when, for example, on p. 123, ch. 12, the author says that his guru is snoring and then glorifies it by saying that snoring is a sign of complete relaxation.

Both the author and his guru seem to be wealthy, because they were born into rich families. At times I had the feeling that the author is a bit dismissive of people who were less fortunate, e.g., p. 213, ch. 20, where the author ask his uncle "could you possibly spare me your servant".

Needless to say, the book is very esoteric, which culminates in the end were the author describes life after death and his worldview (highlight, p. 459-460, ch. 43, "[...] on different astral planets [...] war take[s] place with lifetronic bombs or mental mantric vibratory rays.").

The good things that I can say about the book are that
1.) it is entertaining,
2.) it provides a view into a different culture, and
3.) the scientific approach is in principle approved of, e.g., p. 369, ch. 35, were it is said that Kriya Yoga is like mathematics: "Burn to ashes all books on mathematics; the logically minded will always rediscover such truths." Maybe the real miracle of the book is how the author was able to reconcile the scientific principle and the esoteric parts of his teaching in his own mind.

[calanthony · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

If reading this book, buy the "blue cover" one which is the first edition available from Amazon.
The orange cover one (by SRF) has too many additions and deletions which dilutes and distorts Paramhansa Yogananda's power, including changing his first name by adding an "a" and making it Paramahansa.
The magnitute, majesty and magnetism of this Avatar is truely a blessing for the sincere seeker of the Divine.
Many esoteric or yogic interpretation of the sayings of Jesus are amazing in their revelation of the same teachings of original Christianism and original Hinduism.
Read and start on your own spiritual journey.

[barbaraborgeld · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is one of my all-time favorite reads. It gave me answers to spiritual encounters I have had that no one before was able to help me find. It is written with a fresh innocence that gave me 'permission' to search outside of my cultural box to find an ancient world filled with beauty and the love of God.

[kaulsu · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I first read this book in 1971. It opened a whole other dimension of spirituality that I found fascinating.

To read this book today, more than 39 years later, was an interesting exercise.. If you want miraculous tales of siddhis, read this book. If you want a most tedious account of the afterlife, this is also your book. Yet in spite of my skepticism, this book is a fascinating entry into monastic Hinduism.

It gives a good account of the relationship between guru and student and introduces the reader to several Indian saints.

[akash8c · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

One of the must read books to know about life.

[pjmazumdar_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

This is not Yoga!!

Yoga is an intellectual search for the truth. It doesnt depend on such fanciful fables and claims.

And Yogananda really goes way out with his claims!! It starts with him remembering himself as a fetus when he knew all languages and finally selected the one he was hearing as his mother tongue and his first memories right after he was born when he saw his mother. The claims keep getting wilder and wilder, beginning with minor miracles like controlling his kite as a child, to fantastical claims like Yogis who never eat, become invisible, fly through the air and do just about anything that Superman does, and much more! There's a photograph of Yogananda standing alone with a caption, "Yogananda standing with his master, who did not care to be photographed, so he made himself invisible." It requires a very strong gullibility to accept this. If anyone wants to become invisible or fly, they should go, not to a Yoga teacher, but to David Copperfield.

I am amazed that people in the West still seem to like this book. Many reviewers write about how they have learned about a 'different culture' and a 'different way of thinking' from this book, as if in India we are quite used to seeing our Yogis flying through the air and so on.

It would be quite natural for anyone who first comes into contact with Yoga through this book to develop a strong cynicism about Hinduism and its practises, including Yoga. But this is not Yoga at all. To learn about Yoga, I would recommend reading Swami Vivekananda and Ramkrishna Paramahansa, these were great teachers who also achieved relevatory experiences through Yoga but certainly never made any such absurd claims. Yoga is not the magic and superstitious fable that this book makes it out to be.

[kellyannbrown · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

...taken bit by bit, this can be clarifying and life-changing. I am finding this book easy to read and full of things that cause me to think deeply.

[latefordinner · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

What tripe. I put this down a couple of years ago, I couldn't finish it. Who is this written for? An eight year old? Written in a tedious, simplistic, and pendantic style like childrens Bible stories or perhaps fables for the feeble minded. What am I missing here? I've read the Yoga Sutras of Pantanjali, I've read spiritual biographies. This has lots of good reviews, maybe I should try again.

[garret-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a book that has changed so many minds and lives throughout this planet. [It's said to be one of the most translated and the best selling spiritual autobiography.] One view: it's a travelogue. Through the observations of this affable outsider narrator we see america, the early 20th century, and some towering personalities in spiritual perspective. Yogananda sees through a mystic's POV, and when it comes time to show us his world, then comes the astonishment. For me, most fascinating was when, through a visitation from his recently departed guru, he reveals "geographic and cultural" details of the Astral realm (the immediate afterworld, if you prefer), and beyond that. Considering the esoteric info revealed, this is a remarkably accessible spiritual autobiography.

[esotericlore · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

According to Crystal Clarity, the publisher of this edition, the revisions made in the Self-Realisation Fellowship editions since Yogananda's death in 1952 placed progressively more emphasis on the organisation than on the spirit of his work.

[danig-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Brilliant! Have read many times over.